in the old boyhood days. The sea wind sings to you as it sang of old.
The old dreams come back to you, the dreams you dreamed as you slumbered
upon the cornhusk mattress in the clean, sweet little chamber of the old
home. Forgotten are the cares of business, the scramble for money, the
ruthless hunt for fame. Here are perfect rest and perfect peace.

"Now what place would you say I was describing?" says the feller.

"Heaven," says Jonadab, looking up, reverent like.

You never see a body more disgusted than Brown.

"Get out!" he snaps. "Do I look like the advance agent of Glory? Listen
to this one."

He unfurls another sheet of paper, and goes off on a tack about like
this:

"The old home! You who sit in your luxurious apartments, attended
by your liveried servants, eating the costly dishes that bring you
dyspepsia and kindred evils, what would you give to go back once more
to the simple, cleanly living of the old house in the country? The old
home, where the nights were cool and refreshing, the sleep deep and
sound; where the huckleberry pies that mother fashioned were swimming in
fragrant juice, where the shells of the clams for the chowder were snow
white and the chowder itself a triumph; where there were no voices but
those of the wind and sea; no--"

"Don't!" busts out Jonadab. "Don't! I can't stand it!"